An All-Consuming Fire Page 9

  Felicity was still shaking her head an hour later when Cynthia had sent Felicity and Antony into the front room, insisting, over Antony’s objections, that she would do the washing up. “I can’t imagine what’s come over Mother. But I hope it lasts.” Felicity paused, deciding whether to mention the topic preying on her mind. “Dad won’t believe it either.”

  Antony touched her cheek. “You’re still hoping your parents will get back together, aren’t you?”

  Felicity hadn’t quite realized how fervently she was hoping just that until Antony put it into words. Yes. She was fully aware of how much she wanted him to be here to perform his Father of the Bride role. But it was so much more than that. Antony’s parents were dead. Her parents would be the only grandparents their children could have. Would they have a grandfather in their lives? And the whole family thing—that wonderful, messy, inexplicable conglomeration of people called a family. She didn’t want hers to be forever broken. She didn’t want to think of her mother growing old alone. She bit her lip, then merely nodded and opened a book.

  A few minutes later she turned to Antony who had picked up his notebook and pen, but sat motionless, staring at the blank paper. “Writer’s block?” She asked.

  He sighed. “Tomorrow is our last day of filming before we break for Christmas. I need to get this right. People aren’t going to be amused if I delay their Christmas hols.”

  “Where are you filming?”

  “Rievaulx.” It was a statement, yet there was a tone of doubt in his voice.

  “Really? Which one of the English Mystics was there?”

  “That’s the problem. None, really. Aelred was their most famous abbot—the leading religious figure in all of England in the twelfth century. And he wrote profoundly influential books on spirituality at the request of Bernard of Clairvaux.

  “But having said that, Aelred was not a mystic. He was an extremely energetic administrator. He constructed many of the buildings we see at Rievaulx today—you see my problem.”

  “So why are they filming there?”

  “I think Harry, or Sylvia—whoever makes those decisions—likes the romantic look of the ruins.”

  “And it’s up to you to make it fit into the story.”

  “Precisely. That wouldn’t be so bad, I could quote from some of Aelred’s writings or something like that, but Harry wants me to do an historical perspective piece. ‘Make it an allegory of the age,’ he said. ‘Time of religious upheaval, Cistercian reforms, flowering of the monasteries, while at the same time Lollards planting seeds of the Protestantism that was to bring it all down.’”

  Felicity nodded. “I can see that. It sounds like good drama. What’s the problem? Can’t you tie it in with Richard Rolle?”

  “No, that’s the easy bit. Ironic, really, because Rolle’s reaction against scholasticism and his insistence on an individual relationship with Christ, even his unorthodox actions of robing himself and becoming a hermit without the approval of a bishop, paved the way for the rise of the Lollards half a century later.”

  Felicity closed her book, leaving her finger between the pages as a bookmark. “Um, Lollards. Remind me.” Then she added, “Odd name.”

  Antony nodded. “Translates ‘mumbler’ from the Old Dutch. The term had been used on continental groups who combined pious goals with heretical belief.”

  “Were they heretics?”

  “By the standards of their day. Today many consider them pioneers, martyrs, heroes. Like most things—depends on your viewpoint.” He paused and grinned. “Would you forgive me if I said they were men of burning faith?”

  Felicity groaned appropriately before he continued more seriously, “They believed in a lay priesthood, an individual approach to God and the primacy of the Scripture. They especially promoted making the Bible available in the vernacular. They were followers of Wycliffe who translated much of the scripture into English.”

  “So, nonconformist, but hardly apostate, then?” Felicity’s observation was interrupted by Antony’s ringing phone. She returned to her reading, but her attention was soon drawn to Antony’s vehement protests.

  “What? You can’t be serious!… But it’s Sunday… Surely an early start in the morning—”

  “What is it?” She asked when he rang off.

  Instead of answering her, however, Antony went to the kitchen to inform Cynthia. “I’m awfully sorry, but it seems I’ll be needing your chauffeur services sooner than we’d realized. Harry says a dazzling sunset is predicted. The cameras roll in two hours. It’s the exact image Sylvia wants for this scene and we might not have another for weeks.”

  Cynthia’s response was immediate. “Oh, what fun. I’ll get my coat.”

  Felicity had little choice but to attempt to match her mother’s equanimity. “Don’t worry, you can work on your script in the car,” she reassured Antony who was taking his director’s orders with anything but complaisance.

  “Ready.” Cynthia reappeared in the doorway wearing hat, coat, scarf, gloves and carrying a handbag the size of a small suitcase.

  “Mother, we’re going to north Yorkshire, not the North Pole.”

  “Best to be prepared, darling. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?” Felicity gave her mother’s attempted witticism a stiff smile.

  A short time later, though, as the little car sped northward along winding, hilly roads and through little stone-built villages Felicity had to admire Cynthia’s competent driving in response to the sat nav’s instructions. The sky to their left took on the first tinges of pink and gold and Felicity began to suspect that the resulting footage might well be worth the Herculean effort of calling a film crew out unexpectedly.

  They turned off the A road onto a narrow lane sunk deep between the rising field on one side and a stone wall on the other. Around another curve and Cynthia gave what Felicity at first thought was a cry of alarm, but then realized her mother was gazing in rapture at the magnificent ruined structure set against the wooded hillside beyond them.

  The deepening colors of the sky were turning the golden stones to flames of crimson, vermilion, amber and topaze. Little wonder Harry Forslund wanted to capture this.

  Fred, with Ginger on her dolly, and Lenny, wielding the handheld camera, were already at work catching the play of light on the ancient stones and broken arches as Harry barked orders at them.

  Felicity smiled in amusement as the voluptuous Tara, her magenta hair now edged in bright blue, pushed Antony into a chair and began applying make-up with deft touches. Felicity’s grin turned to a scowl, however, as the make-up artist’s low-necked shirt gaped when she leaned toward Antony. The glare turned to a chuckle, though, when Antony closed his eyes. It took Tara only a few deft strokes of her brushes. “There, you’ll do. Harry’ll have my guts for garters if I delay you.”

  And she was none too soon. “Father Antony! Get yer cassock over here!”

  Antony strode to the center of the green lawn to take his place before the towering Gothic arch at the west end of the ruined nave, gilded with iridescence. If only he could recall the words he had honed so carefully on the journey over. He took a deep breath and plunged. “This abbey was one of the most powerful centers of monasticism in Britain. At its peak in the mid-twelfth century it was home to 650 men, both monks and lay brothers.” He gave a few carefully selected facts about the work of the abbey, wishing he could somehow convey a picture of the hive of activity these now silent chambers and fields would have been as the monks maintained their round of eight services a day and the lay brothers went about the labors that supported the economy of what today would be a major corporation.

  “Cut!” Harry broke the flow just as Antony felt he was hitting his stride. “Enough of that. Get on with the drama. Where’s the blood and guts? I have a series to sell to the big time. The BBC isn’t interested in pabulum. If this doesn’t fly I’ll be directing kangaroos on the Australian outback.

  “Give us more conflict. Gore. Danger. That’s what sells.”
He pointed. “Over there. By Joy.”

  Antony moved to stand by the presenter whose cap of blond hair had been turned to a halo by the setting sun. “This is such a peaceful scene today, Father, but isn’t it true that in the fourteenth century much of England was torn by religious strife that resulted in grisly executions?”

  Antony tried to hide his bewilderment. What did this have to do with the English Mystics? Still, all he could do was try to make the best of it. He gave his prepared background about the Lollards then segued to answer her question. “King Henry IV passed the De heretico comburendo in 1401, which did not specifically ban the Lollards, but authorized burning heretics at the stake.”

  “Cut.” Harry Forslund stormed forward in his bull-like way. “‘Burned at the stake’ doesn’t do it. We’ve got a gibbet here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Antony turned to the structure behind him where Ginger’s round eye was pointing. He stared, unbelieving, at the sight. A gibbet, indeed.

  But why? What on earth was a gibbet doing here? An obviously newly constructed one that had no relevance to the history of the place. It must have been set up on Harry’s orders. Antony shuddered to think what English Heritage would have to say about that.

  All Antony could think of was to offer a weak protest. “Er—but really, heretics were burned at the stake, not hanged.”

  “And how effective an image would a pile of kindling wood be, I ask you? Think, man! A gibbet is a much stronger statement. It’s all about making pictures in the viewers’ minds. Pictures they will carry with them. Television is a visual medium.”

  Antony gazed at the stark black beams silhouetted against the winter sky, cutting a black gash through the glory of the sunset. The empty loop in the dangling rope swayed in the breeze, giving Antony a momentary feeling that it was swinging out toward him. He shuddered and stepped back. A powerful image, indeed.

  Chapter 9

  Antony woke completely disoriented the next morning. Rays of the nascent sunrise struck the wall beyond his bed, making him startle. Flames? A heretic being burnt? He threw his covers aside, then realized he had been dreaming about the execution of William Sawtrey, the first Lollard martyr.

  He had attempted to tell the story to the cameras as the blaze of sunset sank behind the Hambleton Hills last evening. But Harry insisted on his gibbet image, so Antony had mentally speed-read through his church history notes as if his files were in front of him. “Well, Sir John Oldcastle, a friend of Henry V’s and Shakespeare’s model for Sir John Falstaff, was a Lollard who led Oldcastle’s Revolt—a widespread Lollard conspiracy, which planned to seize the King and establish a commonwealth.

  “The plot was discovered. Sir John was condemned, hanged, and burnt—gallows and all.”

  “Well, there you are, then. Tell the story, man. That’s what we’re paying you for.”

  “But the execution was in London,” Antony protested. Harry made an impatient gesture and Antony told the story.

  And now here he was, without so much as a toothbrush, in a farmhouse B and B just beyond the abbey. Again, at Harry’s insistence. The whole crew was staying there. Well, Harry and Sylvia were in the B and B. Several of the others were staying in the small caravan that accompanied the crew to locations. And Antony suspected some had slept in their cars to save money, for all that Harry was paying them.

  It seemed someone had failed to warn Antony that this was to be an overnight stay when the whole venture was set up in haste on Harry’s orders that they were to capture the sunset and begin filming at the Terrace the next morning as soon as the sun illuminated it. In spite of the discomfort, though, of being caught out without his kit, Antony was glad they hadn’t had to make the drive back through the dark last night and then set out again before sunrise this morning. Fortunately, the B and B had been able to accommodate Felicity and Cynthia with a room just down the hall.

  Again, Antony puzzled over the fact that they were to begin filming at the Terrace. What place that scene would play in the story of the mystics he couldn’t fathom, but it was Harry and Sylvia’s film and as Harry reminded him, they were paying his salary, such as it was. Apparently Sylvia, as producer, had scouted the sites months ago and set the filming agenda. It remained for the rest of them but to obey.

  Antony crossed the room to splash his face and swirl water around in his mouth at the sink in the corner. At least he had a comb in his pocket, but that was about the extent of what he could accomplish in the way of morning ablutions.

  He clicked on the electric kettle sitting on the wide window sill. It had just boiled when a tap and soft voice at his door told him that Felicity would share his morning tea with him. Acutely aware of the dog-eared mien he presented, he blinked at her glowing appearance. After a good morning kiss he asked, “Goodness, how do you manage to look so fresh?”

  She laughed as she added a container of long-life milk to her tea. “I’ll have to say my mother is a wonder. She had everything in her bag—including an extra toothbrush they had supplied on the airplane.”

  “You know, Felicity…” Antony stopped. He wouldn’t go there. Felicity would find her own way with her mother.

  “Hmm?” She raised an eyebrow at him over her teacup.

  “Er—uh, it looks like it’s going to be a brilliant day. How about going for a walk? We’ve got at least an hour before the cameras roll.”

  “Sure. Do you have your script ready?”

  Antony shrugged. “I’m not sure what I’m to do today. Just technical advice, I think. I understand Joy will be interviewing a local expert—descendant of the local great family, I think she said. Whatever that has to do with the Mystics I can’t imagine. Seems considerably farther off-topic than the Lollards to me.”

  They finished their tea quickly and slipped down the stairs before Antony could be waylaid by Harry Forslund. They heard his booming voice and Sylvia’s murmured responses as they tiptoed past their door.

  “Oh, it’s magical!” Felicity held out her arms to the awakening world. Overnight frost had limned every tiniest twig and branch of the vegetation bordering the lane to the abbey and the millions of tiny prisms caught rays of the dawning sun and made rainbows dance like fireflies. Woolly sheep baaed at them from the fields beyond.

  “I’d been hoping for snow for our wedding, but maybe frost would be even more romantic.” Felicity slipped her gloved hand into his and they walked on in silence as the radiance increased around them.

  Although the abbey was closed on Mondays during the winter, Harry had made arrangements for one small gate at the back of the grounds to be left unlocked for the crew. Antony held the gate open for Felicity, then led the way across the frost-brittle grass to the foundation stones of the broken walls of the infirmary. “Let’s just go around that way into the infirmary cloister,” Antony directed her. “It would have been a marvelous medicinal garden in Anselm—”

  His words were lost when Felicity gasped and shoved him to his knees behind a partially standing wall. “He’s got a gun!” She hissed.

  Antony followed her pointing hand to see a figure in a long black coat and hat standing in the arched alcove high up on the infirmary wall. A shaft of sunlight struck the end of the dark object he held raised to his eye. Antony froze.

  Then he relaxed in laughter. “That’s not a gun. It’s a camera.” He pushed himself to his feet and waved at the figure in the oversized niche. “Lenny!” Antony called and strode toward the cameraman. “This is devotion to art. What brings you out so early?”

  Lenny held out the Leica with its long telephoto lens. “Well, you can call it art if you want to. I call it following orders. Although I can hope some of those sunrise shots might qualify as artistic.”

  Before Antony could reply Lenny jumped from the wall in something of a daring feat. “We’d best be heading back if we want breakfast before the action starts. This morning air has me ravenous.” He took a few steps toward the exit then turned back. “Coming? Gill in the catering van
does a killer bacon butty.”

  “We’ll be along soon.” Antony waved him away, then looked at Felicity. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not yet. I didn’t really get much of a look round last night. This is truly magnificent, isn’t it? One forgets.” Her head lifted to the soaring Gothic arches of the east end of the nave. As she walked across the frosty grass the morning sun highlighted the intricate molding of the arcade arches high above.

  Antony pointed out the paired lancet windows of the clerestory, then suggested they take the path running along on the hillside beside the nave for an overview of the building. As they made their way down the length of the building from the higher elevation of the path Antony started to point out what a celestial effect it created to look through the high-vaulted arches linking the piers of the nave. But before he could give words to his thoughts Felicity grabbed his arm. “Ugh. Why don’t they take that thing down?”

  Not wanting to tear his gaze from the shafts of morning sun streaming through the open panels of the east window, Antony gave her a rather abstracted answer. “The gibbet? I’m sure Harry’ll get rid of it later today. Probably too dark to take it down last night.”

  “But it’s obscene.” Antony felt Felicity shiver beside him.

  “Shall we go back then?” He started to turn.

  But Felicity took a step up the hillside toward the gibbet. “No, look. He’s added something else. It looks like—”

  Felicity’s scream ripped the dewy serenity of the morning.

  Chapter 10

  A slight breeze twisted the plump, nearly naked body dangling on the end of the rope. The morning sun made the white skin appear even more snowy than the frosty landscape. Wisps of black and lavender lace underwear cut like gashes across the pale form. Spikes of magenta and blue hair pierced the morning sky.

  Felicity closed her eyes but the image was burnt into her eyelids. She shivered inside the blanket Sylvia put around her shoulders, her chill more from shock than from the icy air. Now all she wanted was to get back to the warmth and security of the B and B. And to her mother.